Black, Chrome and Midnight Mist
by 43501
Summary: You knew he wouldn't admit such things out loud. He rarely did. But you'd become adept at stringing together the pieces of his chaotic mind, reading his signals, speaking his unspoken language. [Explicit Ichimatsu x Female reader. Post Ep 24. Elements of knifeplay, bloodplay, choking, possessive play, angst and a bit of fluff on the top.]


"Overnight stay, standard room, please."

Your hard-earned money vanishes with a paper-on-metal swish into the chrome hollow beneath the anonymity screen. The shadow of someone unidentifiable shifts on the other side of the frosted threshold, counting notes and opening drawers. The unkempt man lingers behind you, hands buried deep into the pockets of his sweatpants. In your peripheral vision you can see him nervously looking about, as though he were unsure of where to place his gaze. An overstuffed dufflebag containing all of his personal effects is cradled under an arm.

You clearly remember how you met him. It was a rainy day in early March when Matsuno Ichimatsu first appeared, crouched beside the dumpster behind your workplace, hugging knees close to his chest. You startled at the unexpected presence in the alley, dropping both of the bags of trash you were there to dispose of. You instinctively knew what was wrong with him when he weakly raised his head in response to the commotion, eyes unfocused.

From that point onward, a pattern emerged: at around six in the evening he would appear around the alley. You would bring him whatever you could from the kitchen and spend your break with him. On particularly slow nights you'd invite him into the restaurant and buy a meal for him proper. He always seemed somewhat guilty for accepting your charity.

He was a man of few words, you learned, but polite company nevertheless and a thoughtful listener. Some sort of familial split left him without a home. Details were not forthcoming. He rarely looked you in the eye or answered questions about himself, preferring to deflect them to you instead.

Then, one week ago, he suddenly disappeared. You found yourself making more frequent trips out to the alley during your shifts, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Tonight you sighted someone familiar on your way to the station - the figure of man who walked with a stoop, half his face concealed behind a flu mask. Your heart skipped over a beat when your eyes met his, a faint look of shock on his features. An impulse made you call out to him, the same one that had you drag him to this love hotel. How could you explain? Maybe you couldn't. He didn't object.

After what feels like an eternity, a key is wordlessly dropped into the space under the screen. A delicate feminine hand with french-tipped nails pushes it a measure forward in your direction. You retrieve it and read the number on the tag.

Turning on your heel, you seize Ichimatsu by the wrist, instructing him to follow. He is easily pulled along, ever a quiet shadow at your heels. You wait for the elevator in silence, meditating on that little green light. You ride it in silence, trying to ignore the balding, cologne-soaked salaryman in the corner and the suspiciously nubile woman hanging off his arm. His inexpensive rumpled suit and her leather skirt and sheer stockings furthered the mismatch. You reach your floor in silence, navigating the too-narrow corridor to your room, unlocking and pushing it open at last.

The room is modest at best. Most of the space is occupied by a generous queen-sized bed, allowing only enough room to shuffle sideways between it and the scuffed wall. Colored lights from the neon-drenched Tokyo sidestreets stream in through the room's solitary window, dyeing the room in a melange of orange, red and green.

Ichimatsu pushes past you, barely making contact. It's quite a feat in the narrow space. He gently lowers his dufflebag to the floor and seats himself at the end of the bed. His expression is solemn, perpetually half-closed eyes appearing to gleam in the city lights.

"You didn't have to do this, you know." He says, finally lifting the silence between you. "A cardboard box or park bench is fine for a guy like me."

"The forecast said snow is possible tonight. It's a brutally cold spring night. I'm not going to leave you outside." Your chest tightens as an all-too-vivid image of him curled up and lifeless on the pavement behind your workplace briefly flashes across your mind. Lately, it was an image that intruded every time you swung open the back door.

"A night at a net cafe would've been cheaper, too." He adds.

"So why are you objecting now that we're in the room? Why didn't you say any of this before I handed over the money?"

"Sorry."

The softly mumbled apology, quickly supplied, is in sharp contrast to your peevish question. Ichimatsu squeezes his hands together, gaze downturned and glued to the patch of carpet in front of him. Even in this economical hotel room he seems strangely small for a man of his size, hunched in on himself as though he were attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible, as though he believed that his mere existence was an act of extreme audacity.

His retreat disarms your annoyance. "No, don't worry. You can finally enjoy a hot bath." You could see he needed it. His thick jet black hair was matted in places and a shadow of emerging stubble painted his jawline. "And I needed a place to stay tonight, anyway."

"Right." He turns to glance at the time displayed on the clock on the headboard. "Because the last train out to where you live arrives at the station at 12:45. You've missed it and you're stranded."

He already knew your weekly schedule down to the minute. On one of the many evenings you'd spent together in the alley behind your workplace, sneaking kitchen scraps to him, you confessed that on the nights you worked late, you feared the walk to the station. 'Don't worry about it,' he told you.

You hadn't realized the true meaning of his words until on a particularly quiet evening as you walked alone, you heard the slow, distinctly dragging footsteps of somebody following at a distance.

"You have a good memory," you admit, "and to tell you the truth, I've missed having someone to watch over me on my late walks to the station."

"Ah. So you noticed."

"Of course I noticed. Wouldn't you notice if you were being followed?"

There's a pregnant pause as Ichimatsu considers your proposition. "I guess. You must think I'm a real creep."

"I knew why you were doing it. You were looking out for me. You're very thoughtful."

"Don't you have any sense of danger? Didn't you think I was going to take advantage of you?"

"No. I know you're not that sort of person." You take a seat behind him on the bed, the too-soft mattress depressing considerably with your combined weight. You loop your arms around his narrow chest and draw him in close to yourself, hugging from behind. You note he smells a little musky but you don't particularly care. He tenses at the initial contact, unaccustomed to such physical proximity, but soon eases into the embrace.

The two of you lapse into silence once more, the tranquility of the room only occasionally broken by the sounds of passing traffic outside. Amidst the stillness of it all, you find yourself entranced with the rhythms of his body. You feel the slow, steady expansion and contraction of Ichimatsu's ribcage as he breathes. Even the susurrus of the street subsides. How long has it been? Around him, time always seems to slow. You gently press your cheek to the side of his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder and fluttering your eyes shut. His skin is burning hot like a furnace.

There's something weighing on your mind. "Where did you go? I've been looking for you. Thought you might've done the smart thing and gone home."

"Home? No. There's no way I'm going back there with the way things are."

"So you've just been avoiding me, then?"

"That's..."

"Why?"

"Why are you asking 'why'? Because I k-kissed you." It's endearing how he stumbles over the word 'kissed', like a bashful schoolboy admitting a crush.

You briefly recall that moment, that last interaction you had with him before he vanished. He was quieter than usual that day. You told him that you cared about him and you'd be there for him if he needed you. He replied by leaning over and closing the gap, pressing his mouth against yours.

"Yes, and I liked it. I kissed you back."

"Did you? I didn't notice." He pulls forward slightly, placing some distance between you. It's impossible to comprehend his tone.

"I've been worried." You continue, brushing aside the topic of the impulsive kiss for the time being. "Ever since you stopped showing up I wanted to believe that you went home, but I couldn't stop thinking that maybe something bad happened."

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine. I'm not someone worth worrying over, anyway."

"Please don't say things like that. You know that's not how I feel."

"I... know that." He manages to stammer out, with difficulty, as though the admission that he might be worth something was an implausible thought. "It's just hard to believe."

Spurred on by his disbelief, you lift yourself up and whirl around, leveraging yourself on his body so that you end up straddling his lap, facing him.

"Oi, what are you-"

Ichimatsu flinches at the unexpected contact when you reach up to tenderly cup his round cheeks in the curve of your palms. His soft brown eyes widen, mouth falling slightly agape as though he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure what.

You close in on him, planting a gentle, chaste kiss to his mouth. Lips lingering there, this moment of small contact seems to extend into infinity, all your attentions turned to him. Your heart swells with rapture at the intimacy of it - the slightly chapped texture of his lips, the way your noses lightly touched, the warmth of your mouths pressed together.

His response is tentative when he finally puckers his lips to kiss you back. Shakily he exhales: he'd been holding his breath. Just the slightest hint of it smells musky, stale and trapped too long behind his closed mouth. It smells like him. A sudden surge of arousal compels you to deepen the kiss. You tilt your mouth askew and eagerly suck at his lower lip.

Not to be outdone, his arms wrap around you and pull you in, greedily squeezing your body close to his. He catches your lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard. You jolt and he takes advantage of your involuntary yelp by shoving his tongue into your mouth, brute and inexperienced. You do your utmost to keep up with the blindingly intense pace of his kiss, tongue mirroring the patterns of his own, hungrily exploring, colliding.

When you finally break away, you're relieved to see that he's as breathless and stunned as you are. "I really like you."

"What?"

"I really like you." You repeat, firmer this time.

You can't be sure due to the hued light, but you suspect he's blushing an angry red. "Do you enjoy making fun of trash?"

"I mean it. I don't want you to disappear again. I'll do anything if it means you'll stay."

"Saying that is dangerous. Because..." He pauses. He's staring directly into your eyes with such unwavering intensity that it's genuinely unnerving. The unsure and incredulous expression he was wearing only a moment ago is gone and he almost seems like a different person. "Because if you really mean that, I'm not going to let you back out, you know."

"I have no intention of backing out."

"Hmmmm. Weird girl. We'll see about that."

He dips his head to drag several slow, small kisses down the side of your neck, following the line of your jugular. The feel of his mouth working against your skin makes you quiver. All of this was bolder than what you were used to from him. What kind of switch had you flipped? You didn't feel in control of the situation anymore. Not that you minded

You snap out of it when he stops. He roughly seizes you by the waist and turns to haul you off his lap and deposit you on the bed beside him. You can hear the pull of the zipper on his dufflebag when he bends down to where it was dumped.

"What are you doing?"

Straining to see in the dark, you watch him as he fishes around in his belongings for a moment before pulling out something small, flat and glinting. A multitool. He holds it up to the light and locks his gaze onto you, making sure that you were watching. Quick fingers flick through the various apparatuses until the tool clicks in place, revealing a 3-inch blade.

"You said 'anything', right?" It was as if he'd been waiting for permission.

Classic Ichimatsu. Give him an inch, he'll take a mile.

The sight of it makes your pulse skyrocket. Goosebumps erupt over your skin, hair standing on end. A burst of adrenaline rushes through your veins and your mind swims with possibilities.

"Uh..." You realize your throat is closed up when you try to speak. "Yes, anything, but if I get to choose, I'd like to live."

"Tch."

He clucks his tongue, rolling his eyes. Was your response really that melodramatic? It would've made you feel faintly ridiculous if he wasn't rapidly advancing on you, shoving you down onto your back and crawling on top to pin you with his weight.

Ichimatsu is unexpectedly light when he seats himself on your hips. You think that you'd stand a reasonable chance of throwing him off if you really wanted to - if you weren't so taken with fear and arousal.

"I'm just going to go ahead and get rid of this." He clarifies this statement by grabbing a fistful of your shirt, urging you to undress.

He sets to work on disrobing you. Compliant, you assist him by twisting your body out of your work uniform. Your awareness is drawn to the knife held in his right hand, which he does not set aside while removing your clothes. The sliver of metal brushes dangerously close at times. Your limbs tangle awkwardly for a moment as you both fumble to pull your pants off without breaking formation.

Stripped to your underwear, his lewd gaze pours over your vast expanse of exposed skin. He runs his free hand up your stomach and to your chest, touching and exploring. Once there his broad fingers slip under the cup of your bra and encircle your breast, squeezing rough, palm already damp with sweat.

Your eyes gravitate downward, noticing the unmistakable straining fabric of his pants. Your thighs squeeze together, heat pooling there. It's too much and you just want him to tear his pants off and mount you already.

Determined to return the teasing, you arch your back and reach around to release the clasp of your bra. A second movement slides it off your shoulders and onto the floor, rending your breasts bare for him. Your nipples harden immediately against the chill of the room's frigid air. Ichimatsu seems awestruck, trying to still his labored breathing by biting down on his lip. Now free from the confines of the cup, his hand rolls experimentally over the mound, your stiff nipple grazing the heel of his palm.

You half-expect him to lavish your chest with attention. Instead, he releases you and presses the flat side of the blade against your abdomen. Your muscles instinctively tense. So the knife wasn't just for show? Was he actually going to do something with it after all? Offering no answers to your questions, he begins to carefully trail it over your body, meandering. Cool metal glides over skin and sends chills up your spine. Seeing him like this, you realize he must have pulled out the knife on an impulse and hadn't planned further.

"Wh-what are you gonna do?"

For the first time in a while he tears his focus away from ogling your body and looks at your face. His mouth splits into a wide, amused grin, teeth showing. It's the first time you've ever seen him smile like that. "I'm going to carve something." He replies, matter-of-factly, as though such a statement was normal. "Just deciding where to put it."

Apparently he's found his canvas, paused over the center of your chest. Panic flares when he twists the blade to point the sharp end down, applying pressure.

His visage is frozen in that mildly manic expression as he slides the keen edge of the knife lengthwise across your chest, tortuously slow, splitting skin. Bitter stinging when the blade parts your flesh makes you open your mouth to scream, but no sound leaves you.

"There."

Ichimatsu sits back to admire his handiwork, eyes trailing after the streaks of blood fanning out over your chest. The nerves around your wound are burning in the cold air. You struggle to comprehend why he seems so transfixed with the mark he made. It was only a single incision, just a horizontal line-

 _'Ichi'_

"Heh... heheh..."

His deranged chuckle almost sends you over the edge. Your brain is a swirling, dizzying cocktail of adrenaline and oxytocin, preoccupied with nothing but the thought of him fucking you with all his might. He raises the bloodied blade to his mouth, cleaning both sides off with his tongue, leaving sanguine smears on his saliva.

You don't want to wait anymore.

"Ichimatsu-"

"Ichimatsu-sama." He interjects, folding the multitool shut at last.

"Ichimatsu-sama," you correct yourself, "I want to belong to you. Make me yours, please."

Only now that you were inviting him to go all the way does he look nervous again, blinking down at you. You reach down and pull your underwear to your thighs, offering him a glance at your slit. You feel a trickle of blood roll down your front from the motion. Spurred into action by the sight, he tosses the multitool aside and leans forward to grab one of the condoms off the headboard.

You gulp as he pulls down the waistband of his trackpants, revealing a dark swath of coarse pubic hair and an uncut dick standing at full attention, head slick with precum. He sits back and carefully tears open the small packet, tossing the empty pouch aside. He must have never used a condom before because he flips it over several times before discerning the correct side. Eventually he figures it out and rolls it over the tip of his member, unfurling it to the base.

Ichimatsu pulls your panties off the rest of the way and hastens to lower himself down on you, aligning between your legs. You're surprised when dips down to place an incongruous, light peck on your cheekbone as you shuffle into position. He pushes his hips forward, sliding effortlessly into your eager, sopping pussy. The feeling of him inside you at last is nothing short of pure ecstasy.

He makes a low hiss through tightly clenched teeth, trembling and breath stuttering. He's fully buried himself, your lower halves hot and flush against one another, but he doesn't dare to move an inch more. The mere act of entering you pushed him almost to his limit.

"I-Ichimatsu-"

"Shut up." He squeezes his eyes shut, manually controlling his breathing in attempt to steady himself. "J-just give me a minute."

You can feel your womanhood clamping down, primed and ready to be bred by him. You exhale and try to relax your muscles as much as you can. Allowing him a moment to recover, you concentrate on the bliss of being joined like this.

He pulls back just an inch or so and then carefully drives his length home again, testing the waters. The slow, shallow movements make you twitch with delight, his warm body pressing against you and massaging your needy clit. You can't help but groan and Ichimatsu sighs in tandem.

Looking up at him, his features are fixed in a look of intense focus as he fucks you, teeth grit and brow furrowed. He seems reluctant to make eye contact, letting his eyes fall on your chest instead. Splotches of green-and-orange light from outside paint his skin from the window's side.

Steeling himself, he increases the power behind his thrusts, though he shows valiant restraint in keeping to a moderate pace. Your pussy grips him as he rocks back and then quickly juts forward, plunging his cock into your depths. He punctuates the end of every deep stroke with a sharp jab of his hips, probing against your cervix.

Although it feels mostly congealed, the shallow cut on your chest makes itself known with a spark of pain whenever he manages a particularly strong thrust. Without warning, Ichimatsu doubles over and brings his mouth to the wound, lapping at it insistently. A passionate moan is wrenched from you at the sensation of his dextrous wet tongue swirling circles on your chest, mopping up every last trace of blood. You feel yourself clench with excitement when he seems to lose himself in the action a little, fixing his mouth on the area and slurping, humming a low, satisfied 'mmm'.

He's out of breath when he breaks away, a glob of excess drool spilling out over his lower lip and falling against your chest as he sits up once more. The concentrated look he was wearing only moments ago is replaced with something more love-drunk, half-lidded eyes glassy and unfocused. He finally takes a break from drinking the rest of you in to meet your eyes.

As he continues to buck against you, he tries to say something between breaths, the motions bouncing you off the springy mattress,

"Do... Do you... love me?"

He used the strong form of the word. Hearing it tumble from his lips in the heat of the moment like this, bent over and moving inside you, makes everything stop. The open-shut pain in your chest, the hum of the hotel room ventilation. Everything, just for a moment. You love him. You completely adore him.

"I l-love you, Ichimatsu-sama."

"Hhh..." He makes an unintelligible noise, your adoring refrain searing through him. You squeal as he slams his hips forward, no longer intent on holding back. Ichimatsu plows you mercilessly, tossing you back so violently that the crown of your head smacks the headboard, making you flinch. You gurgle and flex your hips up into his rhythm, heat and tension building in your loins. A tremulous hand skitters over your chest and perches itself against your throat. Your racing pulse thrums under his pinching fingers, doubling when he tightens them.

"Love me... love me more..."

"I love you."

His hand closes in on your neck tighter and tighter, constricting. Down below, the motions of his hips maintain their unrelenting pace, pumping away at you vigorously. You can no longer breathe.

"Please..."

The sincere desperation in his creaking voice makes your heart ache. Your stomach pits when you notice that he's crying, neon-glinting tears rolling down his cheeks. You want to respond, to reach out and console him somehow, but his strong fingers are curled around your windpipe like a vice, snuffing your voice. The oxygen deprivation is quickly setting in. Your thoughts unravel. Sensation narrows to a blissful state of sedation, only able to feel the unceasing in-and-out of his cock spearing you over and over.

He gasps as if he was the one starved for air, snatching his hand back guiltily, as though he realized he went too far. You desperately gulp lungfuls of air the moment you're able to, propelled back into full awareness. The white-hot pleasure between your legs finally erupts and you arch your back off the bed, crying out and writhing, gripping at the bedsheets.

When Ichimatsu cums only seconds later, his groan of pleasure is broken by a hiccuping sob.

Then he collapses on you. His weight and the texture of his worn cotton sweater make you wince when they make contact with your cut.

His cheek feels wet, pressed into the crevice of your neck. He has just enough presence of mind to retrieve the now limp, cum-soaked piece of latex from between his legs, dropping it into the complimentary ashtray set atop the bed's headboard.

Was he frightened by some glimpse into his own darkness, previously unknown to him?

The low voice beside your ear is muffled, speaking into the pillow. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"Everything."

It would have been evasive from anyone else. From him, you believe it wholeheartedly. He's far from home, in bed with someone he barely knows. He was overwhelmed and broke down in that first fumbling fuck. Had he gone too far, testing you, showing you what he needed? Even a fraction of these thoughts stewing in a potent mix of shame and worry would be enough to break someone's mind.

You knew he wouldn't admit such things out loud. He rarely did. But you'd become adept at stringing together the pieces of his chaotic mind, reading his signals, speaking his unspoken language.

Suffused with tender warmth, you embrace him and softly stroke his hair. It feels slightly oily under your touch, reminding you of just how long he'd been without comforts. "I meant what I said a moment ago. I'm happy that I'm here with you. I love you."

You hear him sniff and feel his arms wrap around you, squeezing warmly. His lips come to rest on your shoulder. It wasn't a vocal confirmation, but you knew that this was his way of telling you he felt the same.

"There's something I've been considering for a while now. I'd like you to come home with me."

"Eh?"

"Take the train with me in the morning. You can stay at my place until you figure things out."

"Ah... I don't want to-"

"You won't be imposing," You predict his words and cut him off, "I promise. I'll be much happier knowing you're safe instead of outside somewhere or going between net cafes."

"Hmm..." He sounds uncertain. You remember at some point he mentioned how he hated feeling indebted to people, but the prolonged silence suggests that he's seriously considering the offer.

"Please?"

"Alright..." A sense of relief washes over you with his agreement. He picks himself up, blotting his cheeks dry with his sleeves and flopping onto his side next to you.

You roll onto your side to face him. His head sinks into the pillow, half-obscuring your view of him, although you could see that he was looking a little better.

You reach over to stroke his face, thumb playing gently over his plump cheek. You feel the faint traces of salty tears on his skin. He seems comforted by the gesture, releasing a long sigh and blinking slowly. His own hand soon finds yours, fingers interlacing.

"Thank you. You're too good to me." He manages a weak smile in your direction. You feel extremely relieved when he doesn't follow up the statement with 'I don't deserve it', although you know he's thinking it.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sorry I didn't offer sooner, though. I just thought you'd go home at some point."

"I don't have anywhere to go back to." His assertion makes you curious but you decide not to press. He'd tell you when he was ready to.

"Then I guess my home is your home for now, right?"

"Right."

"And we can do this again, maybe, if you'd like to."

"E-eh..." Seeming bashful all of a sudden, he buries his face in the pillow. You're surprised when he actually responds. "That sounds nice."

"Oh, and Ichimatsu-kun..." You almost use 'sama' when you address him.

His still-smothered voice answers you. "Yes?"

"Please go take a bath."

"... Ah. Right. Sorry."

* * *

It's six in the morning and windy in the station. The first train out to where you live should arrive soon, thanks to the mechanical precision of the train schedule. At this hour Tokyo is eerily quiet. As the first rays of sunlight emerge, you observe the gradual stirring of activity around you, the squealing brakes of trains halting at neighboring platforms, people passing by.

A blustering breeze hits you. You shiver, drawing your coat tighter around yourself. You glance over at your comparatively unprotected companion and consider letting him wear your coat for a while, but Ichimatsu appears relatively unaffected.

You were taking him home with you. Standing here beside him like this, you watch him for a moment, wondering what he might be thinking. He's as motionless as a statue and staring out across the way, hunched forward with his hands deep in his pockets as always. The flu mask he sometimes wears is anchored under his chin. As still as he's standing, you can almost feel his mind moving, lurching to a start like the train, wheels straining, going somewhere. Going forward.

"Hey," You speak, voice so mellow-soft you were scared your words might be carried away on the wind, "You'll be alright. I'm here."

He turns his head to look at you, blinking. His wide mouth slowly curls into a contented smile. It's the most beautiful sight you've ever laid eyes on.

"Yeah."


End file.
